Androcles and the Lion, by George Bernard Shaw

Afterword

In this play I have represented one of the Roman persecutions of the early Christians, not as the conflict of a
false theology with a true, but as what all such persecutions essentially are: an attempt to suppress a propaganda that
seemed to threaten the interests involved in the established law and order, organized and maintained in the name of
religion and justice by politicians who are pure opportunist Have-and-Holders. People who are shown by their inner
light the possibility of a better world based on the demand of the spirit for a nobler and more abundant life, not for
themselves at the expense of others, but for everybody, are naturally dreaded and therefore hated by the
Have-and-Holders, who keep always in reserve two sure weapons against them. The first is a persecution effected by the
provocation, organization, and arming of that herd instinct which makes men abhor all departures from custom, and, by
the most cruel punishments and the wildest calumnies, force eccentric people to behave and profess exactly as other
people do. The second is by leading the herd to war, which immediately and infallibly makes them forget everything,
even their most cherished and hardwon public liberties and private interests, in the irresistible surge of their
pugnacity and the tense pre-occupation of their terror.

There is no reason to believe that there was anything more in the Roman persecutions than this. The attitude of the
Roman Emperor and the officers of his staff towards the opinions at issue were much the same as those of a modern
British Home Secretary towards members of the lower middle classes when some pious policeman charges them with Bad
Taste, technically called blasphemy: Bad Taste being a violation of Good Taste, which in such matters practically means
Hypocrisy. The Home Secretary and the judges who try the case are usually far more sceptical and blasphemous than the
poor men whom they persecute; and their professions of horror at the blunt utterance of their own opinions are
revolting to those behind the scenes who have any genuine religious sensibility; but the thing is done because the
governing classes, provided only the law against blasphemy is not applied to themselves, strongly approve of such
persecution because it enables them to represent their own privileges as part of the religion of the country.

Therefore my martyrs are the martyrs of all time, and my persecutors the persecutors of all time. My Emperor, who
has no sense of the value of common people’s lives, and amuses himself with killing as carelessly as with sparing, is
the sort of monster you can make of any silly-clever gentleman by idolizing him. We are still so easily imposed on by
such idols that one of the leading pastors of the Free Churches in London denounced my play on the ground that my
persecuting Emperor is a very fine fellow, and the persecuted Christians ridiculous. From which I conclude that a
popular pulpit may be as perilous to a man’s soul as an imperial throne.

All my articulate Christians, the reader will notice, have different enthusiasms, which they accept as the same
religion only because it involves them in a common opposition to the official religion and consequently in a common
doom. Androcles is a humanitarian naturalist, whose views surprise everybody. Lavinia, a clever and fearless
freethinker, shocks the Pauline Ferrovius, who is comparatively stupid and conscience ridden. Spintho, the blackguardly
debauchee, is presented as one of the typical Christians of that period on the authority of St. Augustine, who seems to
have come to the conclusion at one period of his development that most Christians were what we call wrong uns. No doubt
he was to some extent right: I have had occasion often to point out that revolutionary movements attract those who are
not good enough for established institutions as well as those who are too good for them.

But the most striking aspect of the play at this moment is the terrible topicality given it by the war. We were at
peace when I pointed out, by the mouth of Ferrovius, the path of an honest man who finds out, when the trumpet sounds,
that he cannot follow Jesus. Many years earlier, in The Devil’s Disciple, I touched the same theme even more
definitely, and showed the minister throwing off his black coat for ever when he discovered, amid the thunder of the
captains and the shouting, that he was a born fighter. Great numbers of our clergy have found themselves of late in the
position of Ferrovius and Anthony Anderson. They have discovered that they hate not only their enemies but everyone who
does not share their hatred, and that they want to fight and to force other people to fight. They have turned their
churches into recruiting stations and their vestries into munition workshops. But it has never occurred to them to take
off their black coats and say quite simply, “I find in the hour of trial that the Sermon on the Mount is tosh, and that
I am not a Christian. I apologize for all the unpatriotic nonsense I have been preaching all these years. Have the
goodness to give me a revolver and a commission in a regiment which has for its chaplain a priest of the god Mars: my
God.” Not a bit of it. They have stuck to their livings and served Mars in the name of Christ, to the scandal of all
religious mankind. When the Archbishop of York behaved like a gentleman and the Head Master of Eton preached a
Christian sermon, and were reviled by the rabble, the Martian parsons encouraged the rabble. For this they made no
apologies or excuses, good or bad. They simple indulged their passions, just as they had always indulged their class
prejudices and commercial interests, without troubling themselves for a moment as to whether they were Christians or
not. They did not protest even when a body calling itself the Anti–German League (not having noticed, apparently, that
it had been anticipated by the British Empire, the French Republic, and the Kingdoms of Italy, Japan, and Serbia)
actually succeeded in closing a church at Forest Hill in which God was worshipped in the German language. One would
have supposed that this grotesque outrage on the commonest decencies of religion would have provoked a remonstrance
from even the worldliest bench of bishops. But no: apparently it seemed to the bishops as natural that the House of God
should be looted when He allowed German to be spoken in it as that a baker’s shop with a German name over the door
should be pillaged. Their verdict was, in effect, “Serve God right, for creating the Germans!” The incident would have
been impossible in a country where the Church was as powerful as the Church of England, had it had at the same time a
spark of catholic as distinguished from tribal religion in it. As it is, the thing occurred; and as far as I have
observed, the only people who gasped were the Freethinkers. Thus we see that even among men who make a profession of
religion the great majority are as Martian as the majority of their congregations. The average clergyman is an official
who makes his living by christening babies, marrying adults, conducting a ritual, and making the best he can (when he
has any conscience about it) of a certain routine of school superintendence, district visiting, and organization of
almsgiving, which does not necessarily touch Christianity at any point except the point of the tongue. The exceptional
or religious clergyman may be an ardent Pauline salvationist, in which case his more cultivated parishioners dislike
him, and say that he ought to have joined the Methodists. Or he may be an artist expressing religious emotion without
intellectual definition by means of poetry, music, vestments and architecture, also producing religious ecstacy by
physical expedients, such as fasts and vigils, in which case he is denounced as a Ritualist. Or he may be either a
Unitarian Deist like Voltaire or Tom Paine, or the more modern sort of Anglican Theosophist to whom the Holy Ghost is
the Elan Vital of Bergson, and the Father and Son are an expression of the fact that our functions and aspects are
manifold, and that we are all sons and all either potential or actual parents, in which case he is strongly suspected
by the straiter Salvationists of being little better than an Atheist. All these varieties, you see, excite remark. They
may be very popular with their congregations; but they are regarded by the average man as the freaks of the Church. The
Church, like the society of which it is an organ, is balanced and steadied by the great central Philistine mass above
whom theology looms as a highly spoken of and doubtless most important thing, like Greek Tragedy, or classical music,
or the higher mathematics, but who are very glad when church is over and they can go home to lunch or dinner, having in
fact, for all practical purposes, no reasoned convictions at all, and being equally ready to persecute a poor
Freethinker for saying that St. James was not infallible, and to send one of the Peculiar People to prison for being so
very peculiar as to take St. James seriously.

In short, a Christian martyr was thrown to the lions not because he was a Christian, but because he was a crank:
that is, an unusual sort of person. And multitudes of people, quite as civilized and amiable as we, crowded to see the
lions eat him just as they now crowd the lion-house in the Zoo at feeding-time, not because they really cared two-pence
about Diana or Christ, or could have given you any intelligent or correct account of the things Diana and Christ stood
against one another for, but simply because they wanted to see a curious and exciting spectacle. You, dear reader, have
probably run to see a fire; and if somebody came in now and told you that a lion was chasing a man down the street you
would rush to the window. And if anyone were to say that you were as cruel as the people who let the lion loose on the
man, you would be justly indignant. Now that we may no longer see a man hanged, we assemble outside the jail to see the
black flag run up. That is our duller method of enjoying ourselves in the old Roman spirit. And if the Government
decided to throw persons of unpopular or eccentric views to the lions in the Albert Hall or the Earl’s Court stadium
tomorrow, can you doubt that all the seats would be crammed, mostly by people who could not give you the most
superficial account of the views in question. Much less unlikely things have happened. It is true that if such a
revival does take place soon, the martyrs will not be members of heretical religious sects: they will be Peculiars,
Anti–Vivisectionists, Flat–Earth men, scoffers at the laboratories, or infidels who refuse to kneel down when a
procession of doctors goes by. But the lions will hurt them just as much, and the spectators will enjoy themselves just
as much, as the Roman lions and spectators used to do.

It was currently reported in the Berlin newspapers that when Androcles was first performed in Berlin, the Crown
Prince rose and left the house, unable to endure the (I hope) very clear and fair exposition of autocratic Imperialism
given by the Roman captain to his Christian prisoners. No English Imperialist was intelligent and earnest enough to do
the same in London. If the report is correct, I confirm the logic of the Crown Prince, and am glad to find myself so
well understood. But I can assure him that the Empire which served for my model when I wrote Androcles was, as he is
now finding to his cost, much nearer my home than the German one.

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